DRAGON CHILD
- 7 days ago
- 1 min read
By Estelle Phillips
My son returned late.
We silenced at the sight of him
wrought with devastation
from a fight
not quite to the death.
I rushed to hug him,
lured him into his old room
where he flung his rucksack across the bed
and perched, smouldering with contempt.
His mask for loneliness.
His breathing slowed
and turned to fire.
He burnt words exposing our secret shames,
brought us to his place of breaking.
My son was like a dragon
come to claim our souls.
Prepared to attack
he arched his back.
The tips of his spines overlapped
and tinkled against each other.
The bed creaked,
protested the weight
of his despair.
His horny claws clenched
and unclenched their cruel curves
ripped the homemade bedspread.
He flexed his wings,
translucent membranes heavily veined
with blood
stolen
from my boy child.
His tail screeched its spade
across the windowpane,
his chest swelled with flames
and he roared.
Fire came from his throat.
I was scared my son was lost
and he’d grab his rucksack
and go.
I stepped into his scorching misery
and wrapped him
in all that I own.
His body convulsed
and shuddered with sobs.
His spines rattled
down his back
and clattered to the floor.
His claws and talons retracted
into babyskin grown strong and big
and we held on
in the ashes of his solitude.